through heavy shelling. The main road running through it is a steep
hill, from the top of which, just before entering the village, was to be
obtained a most beautiful landscape view, in which was included the
lines of British and German trenches, which could be distinctly seen
from this point on a clear day with the naked eye. At this time our ----
Army had just taken over from the French an additional bit of the line
north of the Somme and east of Albert, which stretched approximately
from Hebuterne in the north to Carnoy in the south, and at these points
our trenches linked up with those of the French. So, passing through
the villages in this district, it was not uncommon to find khaki-clad
British Tommies in one village and blue-clad French _poilus_ in the
next, each out of the trenches for a few days' rest in billets. A small
village full of French troops, dressed in their looped-up-at-the-knee
greatcoats of that wonderful pale blue which is the colour of the
service uniform of the French Army, and with their blue anti-shrapnel
steel helmets--the mass of colour vying with the blue of a summer
sky--presents a wonderful picture. The colour of their uniform is, in
fact, officially designated _le bleu d'horizon_, and is, I believe,
particularly indistinguishable at a distance. If there was a shortage
of anti-shrapnel helmets in the British Army in 1915, there was
certainly none in the French. Every soldier seemed to have been
provided with one, even down to the old Territorials employed in
repairing the roads in the lines of communication; and the gendarme
fifty miles behind the line would wear one, presumably for the same
reason that a miller wears a white hat. The British variety, which is
of a pale sea-green colour, round in shape and with a flat brim, and
frequently has a home-made cover of drab sackcloth, is certainly not so
beautiful either in shape or colour as the oval French casque, and
reminds one rather of the head-dress of a Korean. It is heavier, and, I
believe, has proved itself more effective in actual practice, than the
French type, as a protection against shrapnel bullets.
This was our first view of French troops _en masse_. First-line
regiments of the French Army are composed of men of fine physique and
sound discipline. It would be ridiculous to discuss their qualities as
fighting men: one has only to think of Verdun. Their equipment is
extremely heavy; they never seem to march in step; they attack with
extraordinary "dash," and they "get there" every time. Their artillery,
so largely composed of the famous _soixante-quinze_ guns, is
incomparable. I remember at Lillers, in 1914, seeing batteries of these
75's on the move and passing through the town one after the other
continuously for seven hours.
There is one thing which differentiates Monsieur le Poilu from Mr.
Thomas Atkins in the matter of smartness, and that is that the former
will not shave himself regularly. Tommy, on the other hand, no matter
under what difficulties he is existing, is always well groomed and has a
clean chin.
I have already referred to Bray. Amongst the little towns of interest
on this part of the front is Albert. It is possessed of a large
Byzantine church, which is reported to have taken fourteen years of
labour to build and fourteen minutes of shell fire from the Hun gunners
to destroy. Surmounting the church tower is a large gilded statue of
the Virgin, holding in her arms the Holy Child. Glittering in the
sunshine, it must have been a good target, and for some time has hung
suspended in mid air, almost at right angles to its original position,
having been displaced by shells. It bends over the almost deserted
streets of the little town, which has suffered so sorely at the hands of
the enemy, in an attitude of benediction, and presents a picture which
cannot but impress one. The superstition amongst the inhabitants is
that the day on which the statue falls to the ground from its present
position is the day that the war will end.
This is perhaps the place to add a few words on German "Kultur," of
which so much has been heard and written, and the nature of which, after
investigation and the careful sifting of evidence, has been proved up to
the hilt by competent committees. I have myself seen what remains of
the large church at the village of Doulieu, near Estaires. Doulieu was
formerly in German occupation; its church suffered no damage from
shelling, but had been destroyed by being used as a crematorium, for the
Germans placed in it many of their dead, and, having saturated it with
petrol or paraffin, set it alight. Its outer walls, blackened by fire,
now only remain. A friend of mine on one occasion got into conversation
with a German officer prisoner, who spoke excellent English, having
resided for some years in London. My friend, discussing the war with
him, remarked: "Your army has played a pretty dirty game in Belgium."
The Hun replied, "It would certainly appear so, unless you have heard
our side of the story. It must be obviously a difficult matter for an
invading army to operate in a hostile country, and in one which has been
so wickedly wronged at that, and has a just grievance. Stern
disciplinary action in regard to civilians must be essential, and this
has led to calculated and systematic brutality."
It will be within the recollection of many that Christmas Day 1914, on
certain parts of the line, notably where the trenches opposite ours were
occupied by Saxons, was observed as a day of peace and a temporary
armistice was unofficially agreed on. Soldiers of the opposing armies
climbed over the parapet, and it was reported, though I cannot vouch for
the accuracy of the statement, played a football match in "no man's
land" at one point on the line. I do know that one regiment of London
Territorials exchanged presents with "brother Boche," a jar of ration
rum being thrown over to the Saxons, who returned the compliment by a
roll of barbed wire, of which, an accompanying message said, they had
reason to believe our fellows were short at the time. Since then,
however, times have changed, and subsequent events have put a stop to
anything of this kind. In fact, strict orders on the subject were
issued just before Christmas Day 1915.
Towards the end of September our railhead was "moved up," this time to
Doullens. The Indian cavalry were in "close billets" and "standing to"
under an hour's notice to move. During the days and nights immediately
preceding the attack on Loos, the bombardment by our guns of every
calibre was terrific and incessant; it seemed to never stop, day or
night, the continuous deep reverberating boom. The air trembled, window
panes thirty miles behind the line rattled in their frames, and at night
the sky was lit up by the flickering of the gun flashes. One wondered
how men could live in such a hell, for as such its effects can only be
adequately described. Such a bombardment is the essential prelude to an
attack by infantry, and the transport of the immense amount of
ammunition that is necessary to keep the guns fed is a task which
devolves on the Army Service Corps.
The system adopted for transporting and issuing ammunition to the guns
is to all intents and purposes a parallel to that for transporting and
issuing rations to the troops, which I have described in a previous
chapter. The "Ammunition Parks" of motor-lorries are to the guns what
"Supply Columns" are to the personnel. The lorries comprising an
ammunition park are loaded up from the ammunition train at railhead, and
off-loaded to the limbered horse wagons of the Ammunition Column, the
function of which corresponds to that of the horse train in the Supply
scheme.
But to return to Doullens. It is a small town, boasting of nothing of
great interest, but was at one time in German occupation; only, however,
for a matter of days. The inhabitants will tell you that the Germans,
contrary to custom, did not treat them badly during their stay; they
paid for their billets and everything else they had, making no civilians
prisoners and exacting no money from the population. Doubtless,
however, they would have done so had their departure not been of
necessity a hurried one.
Shortly after the attack on Loos had been made, the cavalry were again
sent back to their former billeting area, no opportunity for cavalry
fighting having presented itself. It was sad indeed to see these fine
troops, superbly mounted and in perfect fighting trim, marching back
from the front, useless for the time being in the general scheme of
things.
Any descriptive account of the Indian Cavalry would be incomplete
without mention of its veteran Rajput warrior, Lieut.-General Sir Pertab
Singh. He is in a sense the _raison d'etre_ of the Indian Cavalry. Over
seventy, short, but as alert and erect as a man half his age, he has
literally lived in the saddle, and is a born fighting man. "'One charge,
one bullet' sums up his philosophy, and it is not a bad one to live up
to in these times," remarked a writer in _Blackwood's_ recently.
Sir Pertab, before leaving India to come to France with the Indian
Cavalry, made over his principality to his descendants, in the belief
that he would never return to his native country. He is frequently to
be seen--his breast covered with the ribands of many decorations and
medals--amongst his regiment, the Jodhpur Lancers, and his wish is to
lead them into action, charge and "pig-stick the German brutes," as I
believe he once expressed it. Writing of him in 1897, Winston
Churchill, in _The Story of the Malakand Field Force_, remarks: "The
spectacle of this splendid Indian Prince, whose magnificent uniform in
the Jubilee procession had attracted the attention of all beholders, now
clothed in business-like khaki and on service at the head of his
regiment, aroused the most pleasing reflections."
So history repeats itself twenty years later!
_*Chapter XII*_
_*BETWEEN THE ANCRE AND THE SOMME*_
In previous chapters I have referred to the intense bombardment which
preceded the attacks on Neuve Chapelle and Loos during 1915. Looking
back they seem as nothing compared with what our artillery has been
able, thanks to the munition workers at home, to treat the Huns to in
August, 1916, a bombardment audible very far back from the scenes of
action. At, say, nine o'clock one night the guns will suddenly start:
one man turns to another and remarks, "There must be a _strafe_ on
to-night." The guns continue without cessation, till perhaps just as
daylight is stealing across the sky they stop for a time abruptly. This
may signify that at this very moment the infantry are over the top, or
parapets, of the trenches at the particular point where the attack is
being made. More names for the Roll of Honour, for "Somewhere in the
universe, God's awful dawn is red."
Newspaper correspondents at the front have recently, in a sense, come
into their own: they have been granted more latitude in writing and
allowed to see something of the show. It is good that this should be
so, both from the point of view of the fighting-men themselves and also
that of the people at home. Much has, therefore, appeared in the Press
and elsewhere on the subject of the advance north and south of the
Somme, and for this reason there remains little left unwritten, so far
as the actual fighting and the scenes of its surroundings arc concerned.
On many occasions, in the course of duty, I have had the opportunity of
going over a good deal of the ground captured from the enemy in the
great Allied push which started on July 1, 1916. It almost baffles
description. Without actually seeing the results, it is difficult to
realize the pulverizing effect of continued and heavy artillery
bombardment.
In this sector, such villages as Contalmaison, Fricourt, and Pozieres,
to mention only three, have literally ceased to exist; the fact that
there have ever been villages in these particular spots is indicated
only by their names on the map and heaps of debris and rubbish. They
are not like such places as Ypres or Arras, where still here and there
remain standing a few forlorn-looking bits of outer walls and the
skeletons of destroyed houses. To give one instance, the cure of a
village in the Somme district, after it had been taken from the Germans,
sought leave from the British authorities to be conducted to it in order
to see if it were possible for him to recover any of the possessions, or
relics, of his church. The privilege was duly afforded him, and thither
he was escorted. Unfortunately, however, he was quite unable to find
either the church, his own house, or even his way about "the village";
but then, as the officer remarked who told me this story, all these
things were scarcely to be wondered at, for Monsieur le Cure had only
spent forty years of his life there! I give this story to indicate what
is the state of the land over which this heavy artillery preparation has
been necessary in order to dislodge the Hun and destroy his
ramifications.
The impression of the whole scene of the captured ground (July
1916)--or, at least, that part of it which I have seen--remaining in my
mind is an undulating plateau extending as far as the eye can see. In
more peaceful times it was perhaps arable land. Now it is arid and dead:
nothing grows there, not a blade of grass; even the trees of such woods
as the Bois de Mametz do not boast of a green leaf--they are splintered
and torn down by shells. Those that still stand are withered and brown,
the results of continual high explosive and gas shells. It reminds you
of nothing so much as land which is suffering from the effects of very
severe volcanic eruption, for it is everywhere pitted with craters and
shell holes of all sizes and depths. On this plateau are quantities of
transport wagons, limbers, and heavy draft horses, their bay coats
shimmering in the sun; these are the wagon lines of the many artillery
batteries that are operating in the sector. As you proceed along the
road, which runs through it, you will note that it crosses more than one
line of former trenches which have been wrested from the enemy at great
cost.
At the point of the road-crossing they have been filled in. Almost all
along the road are well-constructed old German dug-outs, many of them
spacious, dug a considerable depth into the bank on the side of the road
and surrounded by layers of sand-bags. They must have taken considerable
time and labour to construct, many of them being a series of cellars,
connected by passages, at least fifteen or twenty feet deep. If you
care to climb down into them, frequently you will come upon sights which
are, to say the least, gruesome. There is a cold, clammy feeling in the
air in some of these dugouts; they reek of death. Some have been
luxuriously fitted up, walls plastered and papered; traces of electric
wiring and lamp fittings and stolen French furniture and beds are still
visible. I have before me a scrap of torn and blood-stained paper, part
of a leaf from a Field Message Book. On it is written the following,
which it is just possible to decipher. It was picked up in a dug-out in
the old British line, north of the Somme, over which British troops have
advanced:
... high state of efficiency. An important section of these operations
has been entrusted to this battalion, and the Commanding Officer feels
sure that every one belonging to it will rise to the occasion and "do
his bit" for the regiment and his country. A man, no matter what his
position, who sits down or otherwise idles when he ought to be working,
is failing both one and the other.
No doubt the remains of an order issued by the C.O. of a battalion in a
tight corner, with perhaps a difficult job ahead to accomplish and an
important part to play in the "Big Push." There is no signature or clue
which would enable the writer of this inspiring human document or the
regiment referred to in it to be identified. Perhaps his men obeyed his
order and with him have earned their discharge and joined the great
majority. To see the captured ground and its network of trenches and
dug-outs is to realize what a tremendous achievement it has been on the
part of British troops to dig the Huns out like rats from their
strongholds and drive them back, and what artillery preparation must
have been necessary to break down their defences. In passing, there are
also the other rats, and the shelter afforded by dug-outs is shared by
men and rats alike. It is scarcely necessary to add that the latter are
a veritable plague, not only in the trenches themselves, but behind them
as well. There is a story--I cannot vouch for its truth, though it
certainly has a Bairnsfather touch about it--of an officer commanding a
battalion who received orders from his Brigade Headquarters to "render a
return" to that office by such and such a date, stating the number of
rats in the trenches occupied by the unit under his command. The nature
of his alleged reply I have not, however, heard. It is better, no
doubt, left to the imagination. The Army lives on "returns." Every
unit in the field, no matter under what conditions it is living, has to
"render returns" on at least a dozen different things each week. In that
most priceless little book of wit, which contains so much that is in
reality true, _The Young Officer's Guide to Knowledge_, we find that "a
return" is a document sent to a superior authority and comprises lists
of persons or things in your charge. This document, quite contrary to
what you might suppose from its title, never returns to you, unless the
person to whom you have sent it thinks it requires attention. It is
probably called "a return" for this very reason, as it is the most
unlikely name for it, and so cultivates a taste for the eccentric in the
Service. Returns are always being "called for" by somebody. You must
be prepared to "render" these "returns" at all times at a moment's
notice, e.g. "the average number of men who have had sore feet between
January 1st and April 1st."
But to return to the scenery between the Ancre and the Somme.
Cunningly hidden away at different points, the guns will make their
presence constantly known to you. Here a battery of ugly-looking
howitzers is loosing off salvos into the Hun trenches, and a little
further along, perhaps, a 6-inch gun by the roadside will every now and
then belch forth a sheet of flame, as with deafening row it throws a
projectile, weighing about 100 pounds, screeching through the air, which
explodes perhaps five or ten miles behind the German lines. Guns of
every size, from the 13-pounders of Royal Horse Artillery batteries to
12- and 15-inch Naval guns, can be seen and heard pounding away at the
enemy when a big _strafe_ is in progress. No one appears to pay any
attention to these deafening distractions. Adaptability to
circumstances and surroundings is a cardinal principle of war.
It is amongst such scenes as these that the Army Service Corps
motor-lorries roll up as usual with their loads of rations for the
personnel and horses of the guns. A little way behind a battery, it
will be noted, is a bivouac. It is the improvised mess of the Gunner
officers, and here you may meet these priceless desperadoes discussing
"direct hits" that have been recorded to their guns by the observation
officer ahead, narrow escapes and recent adventures amongst "Grannies,"
"Crumps," "Whiz-bangs" and "Heavies," whilst they consume delicacies
from Fortnum and Mason with the utmost sang-froid and complacency,
merely remarking that they hope the Huns won't _strafe_ them to-night!
They are totally unconcerned with the dangers that are constantly
lurking around; thus does familiarity breed contempt of even Death
itself.
Now and again one notices roadside groups of the graves of German
soldiers, all of uniform size and design. They almost invariably
consist of a wooden cross about 3 feet high, surmounted by a little
oval-shaped roof or shelter, to protect them from the weather--to such
lengths in thoroughness do the Huns go and so far do they see ahead!
Painted a grass-green colour, they are strangely out of keeping with the
present hue of the soil and of vegetable life, so conspicuous by its
absence. On each is painted in white characters the name and regiment
of the man whose memory it perpetuates. This follows some such
inscription as "Hier ruht in Gott" or "Unserem gutem Kameraden dem,"
etc. Not far from them are groups of British graves. The inscriptions
on two plain wooden crosses that I noticed have particularly lingered in
my mind: "Here lies a British soldier. Name unknown. Devon Regiment.
He died fighting." The second, the epitaph of a horse: "To the memory
of my dumb pal, Queenie. Killed in action, July 6th, 1916," gives an
insight to the character of the British soldier and his love for the
animals that work with him.
In the sky is an irregular line of watchful captive observation balloons
for observing officers. In the language of the front they are known as
"sausages," from their similarity in shape to that domestic commodity.
Away in the distance is another line of stationary balloons of almost
similar shape, for the Huns, also, are not unobservant. The barbed-wire
cage, a temporary home for recently made prisoners, is always an object
of interest; and everywhere one notices salvage parties clearing up and
collecting together the quantities of waste metal, spent ammunition,
accoutrements, etc., which litter the ground. Piled up at various
points are stacks of empty shell cases, which by their size indicate the
enormous quantity of ammunition that is being used by our guns in their
work of pulverizing the German trenches and fortifications. Every one
is busy--the newly won ground is being cleared, positions are being
consolidated, roads are being made up, telegraph poles and wires
erected, standard-gauge railway lines are being laid down. Whether at
the Base or the trenches, war is carried on methodically and with the
regular routine of a factory. It would appear to have become an
institution. The whole war zone is linked up with a telephone system
which compares favourably with that of London.
Along the road one may encounter parties of prisoners being marched back
from the line, and occasionally little groups of wounded being helped
towards the ambulances. So much for the ground taken from the Huns in
the Great Push of August 1916.
To turn for a moment to another part of the line. From the gaunt and
shell-shattered tower, which stands a landmark for miles around, on the
summit of Mont St. Eloi I have looked across "the Labyrinth," as it is
called, and watched the shells from our batteries beneath explode in the
German trenches, or amongst their wire between our trenches and theirs,
known as "No Man's Land." It is an amazing and uncanny sight. Not a
single sign of life, not a single human being, is to be seen; only the
results of human and mechanical activity are visible. The guns below
loose off with terrific noise, then in the distance there is a dull and
heavy thud, as a huge solid-looking mass of black smoke suddenly rises
up in a cloud from the ground and remains a few moments before gradually
dispersing. To the right can be discerned the battered towers of Arras,
and between this point and the trenches is the little village of
Maroeuil, which nestles hidden away in a hollow and has been scarcely
affected by enemy fire. There, crimson ramblers still blossom and roses
flourish in the gardens, now almost choked with weeds, of its deserted
cottages.
Sights like the view from the top of Mont St. Eloi bring home to one the
fact that modern methods of warfare are accompanied by few scenic
effects or dramatic spectacles. War, like its results, is invariably
ugly. Engineers and chemists have made it so by their ghastly appliances
and materials, which have put the open fighting of former days on
horseback out of the question. Cavalry charges, as portrayed by Lady
Butler, are indeed a thing of the past. A few machine guns, suitably
concealed, could hold up squadrons of advancing cavalry. The only human
element left is the infantry charge, with fixed bayonets. To be killed
by the explosion of a shell or asphyxiated by gas, miles behind the
line, cannot be described as a heroic death--it is not even fair on the
individual who so meets his end. He is not in a position to combat his
invisible enemy; sometimes he has not even a sporting chance of escape
from an attack which he is powerless to combat or avert. Is it, then,
to be wondered at that men living under such conditions, namely, in
places which are periodically or continuously strafed, become fatalists?
They cease to worry, take everything that comes as a matter of course,
never knowing when their turn may come.
Not infrequently we have taken convoys by night to within a matter of a
few hundred yards of the line. The absence of lamps and travelling
along bad and often narrow roads make slow speed imperative and the
utmost care in driving essential. The only light available is provided
by the moon and the many star-shells over the trenches, which seem to
light up the whole horizon, and remind one of so many shooting stars, or
a pyrotechnic display at the Crystal Palace seen from a distance.
Convoying along roads which are in view and under observation of the
enemy, even by night, is as exciting as it is a fascinating game, for
even if the convoy is, by the absence of headlights, to all intents and
purposes made invisible, the enemy is able to assume from their
geographical positions what roads are of strategical importance and
being made use of for transport purposes to the trenches. He may at any
time train a gun on those particular roads, on the off-chance of bagging
a convoy, or at any rate of making the road in question so dangerous as
to necessitate it being put out of bounds for transport, thus making the
approaches to the line more difficult and fewer in number.